- 22 ShcContenu
- audimat
- NO.200+SOUTIEN
Betrayed by his brother—the so-called Boy Who Lived—Harry was cast aside, left to endure a childhood of indifference and scorn. But the time for being overlooked is over. Now, The Wrong Boy Who Lived is about to learn the hard way—Harry always pays his debts. Dark Harry! Slytherin Harry!
The wind rustled sharply through the bare branches of ancient trees. The rattling noise was familiar, having occurred many times already throughout the night.
The small town of Godric's Hollow seemed to hold its breath as an unwanted visitor prowled slowly across cracked cobblestone.
The shadows, thrown from the bare trees, lay warped on rock and ground, providing the illusion of nearly curling towards the lone figure.
It halted suddenly. His darkened cloak, half shrouded from the night itself, stood still in the middle of a barren street towards the end of one court. A single manor glowed with the warm lights of habitation. The sidings were old fashioned and decorated with iron rod fences and elaborate metalwork. Despite the bold statements of wealth, the look was tarnished with the wet splashes of aging rust and dents along the bases of each rod. A metal griffin, standing posh and incredibly out of place had been painted gold and red from the harsh corrosion only time could produce.
The gates groaned in protest as invisible claws forced the metal to bend. The gears twisted and obliged to the brute force, rattling loudly as they collided against the frame once extended entirely upon their hinges.
The two adults who held ownership of this manor had left, celebrating a Halloween Party only after immense amounts of poking and prodding. The two had been resilient, only after false securities and half hearted assurances were they finally convinced to leave.
The party, a small seemingly insignificant event suggested an opportunity that had otherwise been impossible. The situation had dramatically shifted to something bitterly sweet once more details had been cautiously uncovered.
Two infants were left inside the house, a squib witch hired for a temporary caretaker.
He understood the reasoning behind such an ignorant (or naive) action. A squib, integrated to the muggle society so thoroughly he hadn't even been aware of her blood relatives until only recently. Such an outlandish choice for a caretaker was unheard of- he wouldn't have suspected it for a moment. The decision although smart, hadn't been made with proper precautions in place.
A twisted smile warped his face once a shrill alarm pierced the relative quiet. The heavily reinforced ward crumbled with the ghastly sound of something important cracking. The suddenness in which his movements shifted from almost entirely unheard, to loud chaos spoke some unnatural confidence in abilities normally shrouded.
The woman briefly appeared in the largest front facing window, momentarily freezing before vanishing beyond the frame. The windows were of no matter. Having plotted so long and so tediously- he could spare a moment to indulge in his certain victory.
The windows and door exploded with a grotesque rain of wooden shrapnel and warped iron. The frames cracked, teetering and knocking several panels of the house's siding to the now ruined front garden. The carefully pruned lilacs and hydrangeas smashed into the ground and old mulch.
He strolled into the house, positively feeling more giddy than he had in years. His only threat now was a useless waste of genetics, holding a kitchen knife with trembling arms.
He met her horrified eyes and knew that his own burned in excitement.
"Please! I-" she sobbed, arms shaking more before she ran. She bolted like a spooked horse, her feet pounding on the floor towards the stairs. It made no difference; he took his time following after. The stairs squeaked as he ascended and glanced absentmindedly at a moving photo of a mud blood witch and a pure blood fool.
He heard the squib screaming in one room. The door had been locked with a flimsy metal clasp.
She sobbed wildly, begging gibberish as she held her head and long hair between spastic fists. Hysterical, he felt a stirring of disgust for such an unseemly action. His lips twitched slightly, and the woman dropped dead, eyes glassy and mouth open in another wordless plea.
Two cribs, each on opposite walls of the room. They were separated by the squib's body and painted obnoxiously cheerful colours. Innocently they rested under little twinkling mobiles displaying special Quidditch equipment. The far crib held a chubby child with chocolate brown hair. He was curled in a tiny ball, clutching his pudgy fingers into the plush horns of an anatomically inaccurate dragon.
The other crib held a fairly opposite child. A possibly slim child, once accepting all infants had an unseeingly thick layer of baby fat. His hair was dark, nearly impossible to tell the specific color with the lack of illumination. He slept on his side, one arm near its face while the other lay prone near its side.
